A Murder of Magpies

by Sarah Bromley

  “Melalo, you have working hands, gadjo,” I murmured. Such hardened skin, so many scars. He half-smiled as I ran my fingers up and down the length of his palm. Then I pointed to the creases in his hand. “The love line, life line, and head line. You also have a fate line. Not everyone does.”

  “What’s that mean?” he asked.

  “It’s a line, Ward. Hands change, but they can tell you a lot about someone.”

  Drake’s album continued playing, and a girl giggled close to our table. I glanced up from Ward’s hand and spotted the girl with blond ringlets and a sky-blue dress tipping back her head as she drank from a Coke glass.

  Chloe’s hand was nearly attached to Marty’s. She alternated leaning in close to talk to him and sipping from her glass, her pitch getting louder each time she pulled away. Her aura was hazy, but then she rubbed against Marty, not letting go of her drink.

  A hot ember glimmered in my skull. Jonah. My fists clenched, and I snuffed him out with as much force as I could rally. Stay out of my head. If you want to spy on Chloe, do it without my help.

  Enough of the “important” kids from school were here to play with Chloe, to praise her hair, her dancing, whatever compliments she could accept. They’d talk, and she’d ascend her throne again by Monday—without Jonah. His spell on her was broken. She was Chloe Halvorsen and had a reputation to uphold.

  Marty parted from Chloe and moseyed over to where I sat with Ward. An overpowering smell of Coke mixed with liquor—some cheap, rat-piss excuse for bourbon—wafted from him. Ward put his foot on Marty’s chair and scooted him back from the table. “Go get some coffee. Better yet, water. Your head’s gonna be killing you come morning.”

  “I ain’t worried. Danny’s around somewhere, and he’s driving. So bottoms up.” He reached into his trousers and withdrew a small flask. He swiveled around and gave me a sloppy grin. “I was talking with Chloe. She said you read palms and shit. Here, let me try reading yours.”

  Before I could stop him, he snatched my hand, and grimy energy whooshed from his touch like opening the lid on a pot of stewed quail. I breathed deeply, trying to freeze out Marty, but the alcohol in his blood meant he wasn’t thinking or feeling normally.

  “So”—he swayed in his chair—“where’s your love line? You can tell how many guys have been on your ride by the number of notches in it, right?”

  “Marty, let go,” I growled.

  He elbowed Ward. “You know I had a crack at her first.”

  Ward’s jaw flexed, and his nostrils flared. He reached for my other hand. The angry current inside me shifted, eased, though not much. All the anger I felt toward Marty streamed out of me in concentric circles, each ring more blustery than the previous. Ward squeezed my hand and motioned that we were leaving when he began coughing. After a solid minute of Ward struggling to get the kick from his throat, Marty rolled his eyes.

  “That guy’s a gutter rat,” Marty declared. “I know who your dad was, and if you think you’re something special, you’re not. I wouldn’t be surprised if you caught something from living with your old man. Whatever it is, you probably gave it to Vayda.”

  Ward quirked his lips. It wasn’t the easy expression that let me slip through him unfettered. This was something harsh and bitter. His hand pumped in a fist at his side.

  I didn’t want a fistfight and angled myself between him and Marty. “Ward, stop,” I said. “He’s not worth it.”

  “Yeah, but you are.” He glared at Marty. Didn’t yell. Didn’t lay a hand on him. His voice was low and steady. “You ever say shit about my girl or me again, and I’ll break each of your fingers and won’t give a damn. Don’t test me.”

  Marty shrugged, and then he reached for me.

  “Stop!” I shoved his chest.

  The condensed anger shot into him. He tumbled backward in an oafish lurch, lolling on the floor before dusting off his pants. “You skank! You don’t push me away when I’m talking to you!”

  I had to get away before he made an even bigger scene. I snatched my purse off the table and bolted. Ward could handle Marty, even a drunk Marty ranting God-only-knew-what about me. I needed silence, and while I could have gone outside, I needed some place Ward wouldn’t follow me. The girls’ restroom was safe enough.

  Damn Marty Pifkin. Nobody would listen to him because he was so clearly drunk. That was my hope. That was my prayer.

  What if they did?

  People already talked about us, and if Marty felt what I’d done in shoving him, that’d give people a reason to talk louder. I could have dodged or screamed or any of another dozen scenarios running through my mind that didn’t involve my hands, fingers teeming with too much emotion. I didn’t want to be like Jonah and use my hands. I didn’t want to be like Mom.

  The lights flickered and stall doors swung wild as I took some meditative breaths. Every word spoken, every touch from Marty spilled out of me. I had to let go of it. Throwing some cold water on my cheeks, I felt the currents of electricity spiraling through my fingers and rumbling out of my feet to course over the floor. The light switch by the door sparked. Please, stop. I don’t want this.

  The bathroom door opened. I bunched my fingers into fists, and the stall doors all slammed shut. Chloe entered the bathroom, pausing when she saw me. She looked me over from head to foot and positioned herself by the mirror where she checked her teeth. “Having fun?”

  “Ward and I are heading out soon. I’m exhausted.” I played nice and ran a brush through my hair. “What about you? Jonah told me he would visit you later.”

  She slid her hands down her sides, admiring her silhouette. “I’m having a good time right now.”

  “What are you doing with Marty?” I asked. “You can’t stand him.”

  “No, Vayda, you and Jonah can’t stand him. He’s actually a lot of fun to party with.”

  Fire bore through my veins, Jonah’s rage stoked to life. You know her running around with Marty’s wrong.

  Stop it. I’ll handle her, I said from the base of my skull.

  I didn’t want to have this conversation with her, not when I knew my brother was lurking in my mind. “Chloe, you know why Jonah doesn’t get along with Marty.”

  “Because of you. It’s always you, Vayda.” Her pupils darkened, and she zipped her purse closed with enough force I thought for sure she’d pull out the stitching. “I broke up with him before because I didn’t want to compete with you for his attention.”

  “He cares about you, Chloe. He’s not popular enough for you, is he?”

  She wrinkled her nose, void of any of her sugary energy, replaced by something that burned. “I’m done talking about him. Right now, I’m on my own. End of story.”

  My throat constricted. Jonah’s voice pushed down on me. I cleared my throat as if dislodging something, but Jonah wouldn’t go. I sucked in a staggered breath, but he exhaled through my mouth and put his words on my tongue.

  I couldn’t stop him. Somehow he’d become that powerful and I hadn’t even known it.

  “So are you gonna get on your knees for Marty tonight?”

  I clamped my hands over my mouth. Shit, that wasn’t me! Jonah, get out!

  Chloe’s mouth dropped into an indignant O. “Excuse me?”

  “I-I—” My apology failed as Chloe’s slap scalded my face.

  “Bitch!” she spat. “Oh, your life’s gonna be hell! Everyone will know about this! You wait!”

  She barged out of the restroom and left me alone by the mirrors where my reflection held haunted eyes. A crimson welt formed on my cheekbone. What had Jonah done?

  ***

  Ward waited in the hall, twirling his car keys around his finger. He frowned at the red badge on my cheek. “That looks sore.”

  “I deserved it,” I mumbled. “I said something horrible to Chloe.”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Well, why’d you do that?”

/>   Shaking my head—I couldn’t explain what happened, I held up my purse to veil the siren-red handprint. I didn’t want him to see me messy and vicious. I wasn’t that kind of person. Unless pushed. He lowered my purse, stroked the mark with his thumb. “My girlfriend the wallflower, traveler, and pugilist. Got any more secret identities?”

  Neither one of us had to ask the other if it was time to go. A misty rain fell as Ward maneuvered the Jaguar away from downtown Black Orchard to the outskirts where the conifers grew steep. By the time we reached his house, the raindrops bounced off the windshield as chips of ice. He guided me up the porch steps and inside, which was empty but for Bernadette’s toenails clicking on the floor.

  Alone.

  With Ward.

  In a very dark room.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked while he locked the front door.

  “Visiting Chris’s brother,” he answered. “Which means we have the place to ourselves.”

  He stretched his fingers through the darkness until they found mine. His touch began light, fingertips winding with mine before he caressed my arms. My teeth chattered from a draft, from excitement singing in the air. I backed up, my fingers laced through his vest, until my hips pressed against a wall. I pulled him closer. Ward slipped off my cardigan and again chased the vibrations down my now-naked arms. In the darkness, his lips found mine and pressed hard against my mouth, none of those tentative kisses we shared before. He kissed me as if he could take everything and draw it far inside himself. His mouth burned while the plaster against my shoulders chilled, and in the middle, I was like fuel, combustible. I didn’t close my eyes because it was too black to see.

  “Come on,” he whispered.

  I followed him through the darkness, up the staircase with a twist so steep I felt like falling backward. The shadows blanketing the walls were thick, velvety things. I wasn’t sure how far off the stairway we were when he made a sharp angle into his bedroom.

  A match fizzed as it ignited, then a votive candle bathed the room in tranquil amber. I sat on the foot of the bed and unzipped my boots. Before me, Ward unbuttoned his shirt. My chest rose with measured breaths. The shadows folded into the muscles where his trousers rested below his waist.

  “I want you so bad,” he breathed, slinking onto the bed.

  Something shivered in my body. “I want you—”

  His mouth blocked me from speaking. The fingers against my skin weren’t the same ones painted with chipped gray polish I’d noticed when I met him, more deft and eager. My palm numbed from a tremor of electricity as I placed my hand over his and broke from kissing him.

  “I’m afraid we won’t stop if we start.”

  In my ear, he whispered, “Would that be so terrible?”

  I thought about it and answered, “No. It’d be perfect.”

  His fingers slid down my dress’s zipper, coaxing the fabric to reveal more of my skin, and then tiptoed under my skirt. Even though I wanted him, what would happen if we did this? How would he look at me afterward? I focused on the candle on the dresser, how the flame danced on the wick, whipping and flitting. A sense of awe so strong I didn’t know if it came from Ward or myself or both uncurled in my body, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open through the wonder but heard Ward’s hushed laugh.

  Forcing myself not to heave him across the room, I pressed my hands to his chest. He smiled as I needed to catch my breath. The candle burned in a cup with arches like church windows cut in the metal. His hair shined like copper.

  “You want to?” he murmured.

  I managed to nod before he unfastened his pants and guided my hand inside. So muffled, the candleholder rattled on the dresser. I touched him. I was scared of what might come next, but I didn’t want to stop. The candle’s flame thrashed in circles, moved faster, and flickered brighter. He pushed up my dress, our bodies separated by less space than the distance between our mouths.

  “Hang on,” he said. “I need a condom.”

  A high-octane rush pumped into my veins. The corona of light around the candle widened until a plume of fire burst from the wick and torched the air.

  “Shit!” He leapt off the bed and smothered the flames with a blanket from the floor.

  My hands were quiet.

  Ward switched on a lamp with a loud click. Molten, blue wax spilled on his dresser and dripped to the carpet. He grimaced at the gooey mess. With the lights on, I saw him, as he was— a damaged, lanky boy unsure of himself and bashful.

  “What the hell happened?” He gave me a dubious glance and flopped down beside me.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” I answered. Which was true.

  My finger outlined his hand on his thigh. A modest smile twitched his mouth, and the push of energy was too loud, too tenuous for me not to hear his thoughts riding the current to my mind. My girl. My cheeks warmed, and I smoothed my rumpled dress. What might happen if the lights went out and we were in the dark again?

  Vayda!

  My brother’s yell was sharp and echoed in my brain.

  Leave me alone, Jonah.

  I gathered the ash of my exploded barriers. So help me, God, Jonah better not have been near my head when a single candle lit the room.

  Vayda, come now!

  A spike of ice speared my mind, brutal in its pain. My face ached and jaw locked, teeth clenched from agony, and I grabbed the blanket to stop my fingernails from cutting into the heel of my hand. This wasn’t Jonah reaching out because he got a rise out of invading my space. Something had happened. My chest tightened as though Jonah dropped his shields on top of me with a solid, reeling thud. Ward furrowed his brow, and though his mouth moved, I couldn’t make out anything he said. A tang puckered my mouth. I darted to Ward’s bathroom. “I’m gonna be sick.”

  Throwing up was impossible to stop once it started. Ward held my hair, not reacting to my sickness except with a steady, concerned regard. He filled a cup with water. I swished out my mouth. The sound of the water rushing through the faucet thundered in my ears. Sweat pooled in the divot above my upper lip.

  “Take me to Fire Sales,” I panted.

  He grabbed a sweater for himself and covered my shoulders with his coat. “You’re sick. You should go home.”

  “You don’t understand! Jonah needs me!” I barked, ignoring his insulted expression.

  Panic overruled any damn I gave about hurting his feelings. I slid on my boots and barreled down the stairs, outside. The sky should’ve been black with stars at nine o’clock, but clouds invaded the night. Covering the ground were pellets of ice, which crunched under my feet, transforming the walkway into a slick gauntlet. Ward caught my arm and stopped me from falling as I slipped.

  “The roads are gonna be bad,” he said.

  I didn’t care. “Get me there as fast as you can. Something’s wrong.”

  He scraped off enough ice from the Jaguar’s windows to drive, and once the engine was running, he steered the car toward the open gate. The tires spun in search of traction when the car hurtled into the street.

  Vayda, help! My brother panicked in my head.

  “I’m coming, Jonah. I promise,” I murmured. Ward glanced at me. I didn’t care what he heard.

  Within fifteen minutes, we settled by the curb in front of Fire Sales, and I flung open the car door. All the lights in the shop shone on an otherwise dim block of the business district. The showroom should have closed an hour ago. Still two feet from the entrance, I raised my hands. Energy spurted from my fingers. The door threw itself open, the hinges sprung. My shoes clicked against the floor, faster and faster, while I scanned the racks and gaps between furniture.

  “Where are you?” I whispered. “Come on, Jonah.”

  I shut my eyes, shut down the alarms raging in my head until all was silent, not even the crackle of a radiant coal of Jonah’s heat. I needed to try again. I held still and searched for the center of the ener
gy racing through me, the place where it would be quiet. I shut out all the chaos, and after a moment, muffled but detectable, my brother’s heartbeat vibrated against my fingers.

  “There.”

  I spread my arms as though slicing a field of wheat with a sickle. China cabinets, armoires, and every other piece of furniture skated to the sides to reveal a straight corridor to the storeroom. My twin’s pulse signaled me. The overhead lights popped with a shower of electric sparks. No matter how fast I weaved through the furniture, no matter how forcefully I shoved, I couldn’t breach Jonah’s barriers. Why couldn’t I find his mind? I reached the storeroom and again shoved open the door with the energy collected in my hands.

  I found him.

  Jonah’s defeated body was sprawled on the floor by Dad’s desk, surrounded by the strewn remnants of a splintered end table.

  “Jonah!”

  He lay on his stomach. Bruises marbled the left side of his face. Blood seeped from his nose and mouth to pool in a dark halo on the floor. A scream rattled the glass cases and antique mirrors.

  “GOD, NO! JONAH!”

  I ran my fingers through his hair soaked with blood. His skin was clammy, his cheekbone blackened with bruises spreading from under his widow’s peak.

  “—at Fire Sales downtown. We need an ambulance,” Ward dictated to the phone mounted on the wall. Unruffled as if he’d had to call for help countless times before, he spoke in a calm tone despite that his skin faded to the same stark white as linen. He glanced at me, mouth falling open, and looked away. A second unconscious figure lay ten feet away. “Two ambulances…They’re both unconscious. Bleeding…I’ll stay on the line.”

  I scurried toward the showroom where the furniture stayed shoved to the sides. I clenched my fists, searching for energy. Move, damn it! If Jonah could do it on command, why couldn’t I?

  A kindling spark swelled over my fingers. Some chairs and an old bookcase spider-crept away from the rest of the furniture and disrupted the measured hallway I’d blasted through the shop. I checked Jonah once more before moving to the second body.